Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  “None that I can imagine. The only other occupants of the house are a party of half a dozen troopers in the guardroom below.”

  “Where is the Lord General?”

  “Away — I know not where. But he will be here at sunrise.”

  “And the sentry that was at our door — is he not to a changed ‘twixt this and hanging-time?”

  “I cannot say for sure, but I think not. The guard was relieved just before I came.”

  “And the men in the guardroom — answer me truthfully, O Elijah — what manner of watch are they keeping?”

  “Alas, sir, they have drunk enough this night to put a rakehelly Cavalier to shame. I was but exhorting them.”

  When Kenneth had removed the Puritan’s girdle, a small Bible — such as men of his calling were wont to carry — had dropped out. This Kenneth had placed upon the table. Galliard now took it up, and, holding it before the Puritan’s eyes, he watched him narrowly the while.

  “Will you swear by this book that you have answered nothing but the truth?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation the parson pledged his oath, that, to the best of his belief, he had answered accurately.

  “That is well, sir. And now, though it grieve me to cause you some slight discomfort, I must ensure your silence, my friend.”

  And, placing his sword upon the table, he passed behind the Puritan, and taking the man’s own scarf, he effectively gagged him with it.

  “Now, Kenneth,” said he, turning to the lad. Then he stopped abruptly as if smitten by a sudden thought. Presently— “Kenneth,” he continued in a different tone, “a while ago I mind me you said that were your liberty restored you, you would join hands with me in punishing the evildoers who wrecked my life.”

  “I did, Sir Crispin.”

  For a moment the knight paused. It was a vile thing that he was about to do, he told himself, and as he realized how vile, his impulse was to say no more; to abandon the suddenly formed project and to trust to his own unaided wits and hands. But as again he thought of the vast use this lad would be to him — this lad who was the betrothed of Cynthia Ashburn — he saw that the matter was not one hastily to be judged and dismissed. Carefully he weighed it in the balance of his mind. On the one hand was the knowledge that did they succeed in making good their escape, Kenneth would naturally fly for shelter to his friends the Ashburns — the usurpers of Castle Marleigh. What then more natural than his taking with him the man who had helped him to escape, and who shared his own danger of recapture? And with so plausible a motive for admission to Castle Marleigh, how easy would not his vengeance become? He might at first wean himself into their good graces, and afterwards —

  Before his mental eyes there unfolded itself the vista of a great revenge; one that should be worthy of him, and commensurate with the foul deed that called for it.

  In the other scale the treacherous flavour of this method weighed heavily. He proposed to bind the lad to a promise, the shape of whose fulfilment he would withhold — a promise the lad would readily give, and yet, one that he must sooner die than enter into, did he but know what manner of fulfilment would be exacted. It amounted to betraying the lad into a betrayal of his friends — the people of his future wife. Whatever the issue for Crispin, ’twas odds Kenneth’s prospect of wedding this Cynthia would be blighted for all time by the action into which Galliard proposed to thrust him all unconscious.

  So stood the case in Galliard’s mind, and the scales fell now on one side, now on the other. But against his scruples rose the memory of the treatment which the lad had meted out to him that night; the harshness of the boy’s judgment; the irrevocable contempt wherein he had clearly seen that he was held by this fatuous milksop. All this aroused his rancour now, and steeled his heart against the voice of honour. What was this boy to him, he asked himself, that he should forego for him the accomplishing of his designs? How had this lad earned any consideration from him? What did he owe him? Naught! Still, he would not decide in haste.

  It was characteristic of the man whom Kenneth held to be destitute of all honourable principles, to stand thus in the midst of perils, when every second that sped lessened their chances of escape, turning over in his mind calmly and collectedly a point of conduct. It was in his passions only that Crispin was ungovernable, in violence only that he was swift — in all things else was he deliberate.

  Of this Kenneth had now a proof that set him quaking with impatient fear. Anxiously, his hands clenched and his face pale, he watched his companion, who stood with brows knit in thought, and his grey eyes staring at the ground. At length he could brook that, to him, incomprehensible and mad delay no longer.

  “Sir Crispin,” he whispered, plucking at his sleeve; “Sir Crispin.”

  The knight flashed him a glance that was almost of anger. Then the fire died out of his eyes; he sighed and spoke. In that second’s glance he had seen the lad’s face; the fear and impatience written on it had disgusted him, and caused the scales to fall suddenly and definitely against the boy.

  “I was thinking how it might be accomplished,” he said.

  “There is but one way,” cried the lad.

  “On the contrary, there are two, and I wish to choose carefully.”

  “If you delay your choice much longer, none will be left you,” cried Kenneth impatiently.

  Noting the lad’s growing fears, and resolved now upon his course, Galliard set himself to play upon them until terror should render the boy as wax in his hands.

  “There speaks your callow inexperience,” said he, with a pitying smile. “When you shall have lived as long as I have done, and endured as much; when you shall have set your wits to the saving of your life as often as have I — you will have learnt that haste is fatal to all enterprises. Failure means the forfeiture of something; tonight it would mean the forfeiture of our lives, and it were a pity to let such good efforts as these” — and with a wave of the hand he indicated their two captors— “go wasted.”

  “Sir,” exclaimed Kenneth, well-nigh beside himself, “if you come not with me, I go alone!”

  “Whither?” asked Crispin dryly.

  “Out of this.”

  Galliard bowed slightly.

  “Fare you well, sir. I’ll not detain you. Your way is clear, and it is for you to choose between the door and the window.”

  And with that Crispin turned his back upon his companion and crossed to the bed, where the trooper lay glaring in mute anger. He stooped, and unbuckling the soldier’s swordbelt — to which the scabbard was attached — he girt himself with it. Without raising his eyes, and keeping his back to Kenneth, who stood between him and the door, he went next to the table, and, taking up the sword that he had left there, he restored it to the sheath. As the hilt clicked against the mouth of the scabbard:

  “Come, Sir Crispin!” cried the lad. “Are you ready?”

  Galliard wheeled sharply round.

  “How? Not gone yet?” said he sardonically.

  “I dare not,” the lad confessed. “I dare not go alone.”

  Galliard laughed softly; then suddenly waxed grave.

  “Ere we go, Master Kenneth, I would again remind you of your assurance that were we to regain our liberty you would aid me in the task of vengeance that lies before me.”

  “Once already have I answered you that it is so.”

  “And pray, are you still of the same mind?”

  “I am, I am! Anything, Sir Crispin; anything so that you come away!”

  “Not so fast, Kenneth. The promise that I shall ask of you is not to be so lightly given. If we escape I may fairly claim to have saved your life, ‘twixt what I have done and what I may yet do. Is it not so?”

  “Oh, I acknowledge it!”

  “Then, sir, in payment I shall expect your aid hereafter to help me in that which I must accomplish, that which the hope of accomplishing is the only spur to my own escape.”

  “You have my promise!” cried the lad.

  “Do not
give it lightly, Kenneth,” said Crispin gravely. “It may cause you much discomfort, and may be fraught with danger even to your life.”

  “I promise.”

  Galliard bowed his head; then, turning, he took the Bible from the table.

  “With your hand upon this book, by your honour, your faith, and your every hope of salvation, swear that if I bear you alive out of this house you will devote yourself to me and to my task of vengeance until it shall be accomplished or until I perish; swear that you will set aside all personal matters and inclinations of your own, to serve me when I shall call upon you. Swear that, and, in return, I will give my life if need be to save yours to-night, in which case you will be released from your oath without more ado.”

  The lad paused a moment. Crispin was so impressive, the oath he imposed so solemn, that for an instant the boy hesitated. His cautious, timid nature whispered to him that perchance he should know more of this matter ere he bound himself so irrevocably. But Crispin, noting the hesitation, stifled it by appealing to the lad’s fears.

  “Resolve yourself,” he exclaimed abruptly. “It grows light, and the time for haste is come.”

  “I swear!” answered Kenneth, overcome by his impatience. “I swear, by my honour, my faith, and my every hope of heaven to lend you my aid, when and how you may demand it, until your task be accomplished.”

  Crispin took the Bible from the boy’s hands, and replaced it on the table. His lips were pressed tight, and he avoided the lad’s eyes.

  “You shall not find me wanting in my part of the bargain,” he muttered, as he took up the soldier’s cloak and hat. “Come, take that parson’s steeple hat and his cloak, and let us be going.”

  He crossed to the door, and opening it he peered down the passage. A moment he stood listening. All was still. Then he turned again. In the chamber the steely light of the breaking day was rendering more yellow still the lanthorn’s yellow flame.

  “Fare you well, sir parson,” he said. “Forgive me the discomfort I have been forced to put upon you, and pray for the success of our escape. Commend me to Oliver of the ruby nose. Fare you well, sir. Come, Kenneth.”

  He held the door for the lad to pass out. As they stood in the dimly lighted passage he closed it softly after them, and turned the key in the lock.

  “Come,” he said again, and led the way to the stairs, Kenneth tiptoeing after him with wildly beating heart.

  CHAPTER X. THE ESCAPE

  Treading softly, and with ears straining for the slightest sound, the two men descended to the first floor of the house. They heard nothing to alarm them as they crept down, and not until they paused on the first landing to reconnoitre did they even catch the murmur of voices issuing from the guardroom below. So muffled was the sound that Crispin guessed how matters stood even before he had looked over the balusters into the hall beneath. The faint grey of the dawn was the only light that penetrated the gloom of that pit.

  “The Fates are kind, Kenneth,” he whispered. “Those fools sit with closed doors. Come.”

  But Kenneth laid his hand upon Galliard’s sleeve. “What if the door should open as we pass?”

  “Someone will die,” muttered Crispin back. “But pray God that it may not. We must run the risk.”

  “Is there no other way?”

  “Why, yes,” returned Galliard sardonically, “we can linger here until we are taken. But, oddslife, I’m not so minded. Come.”

  And as he spoke he drew the lad along.

  His foot was upon the topmost stair of the flight, when of a sudden the stillness of the house was broken by a loud knock upon the street door. Instantly — as though they had been awaiting it there was a stir of feet below and the bang of an overturned chair; then a shaft of yellow light fell athwart the darkness of the hall as the guardroom door was opened.

  “Back!” growled Galliard. “Back, man!”

  They were but in time. Peering over the balusters they saw two troopers pass out of the guardroom, and cross the hall to the door. A bolt was drawn and a chain rattled, then followed the creak of hinges, and on the stone flags rang the footsteps and the jingling of spurs of those that entered.

  “Is all well?” came a voice, which Crispin recognized as Colonel Pride’s, followed by an affirmative reply from one of the soldiers.

  “Hath a minister visited the malignants?”

  “Master Toneleigh is with them even now.”

  In the hall Crispin could now make out the figures of Colonel Pride and of three men who came with him. But he had scant leisure to survey them, for the colonel was in haste.

  “Come, sirs,” he heard him say, “light me to their garret. I would see them — leastways, one of them, before he dies. They are to hang where the Moabites hanged Gives yesterday. Had I my way... But, there lead on, fellow.”

  “Oh, God!” gasped Kenneth, as the soldier set foot upon the stairs. Under his breath Crispin swore a terrific oath. For an instant it seemed to him there was naught left but to stand there and await recapture. Through his mind it flashed that they were five, and he but one; for his companion was unarmed.

  With that swiftness which thought alone can compass did he weigh the odds, and judge his chances. He realized how desperate they were did he remain, and even as he thought he glanced sharply round.

  Dim indeed was the light, but his sight was keen, and quickened by the imminence of danger. Partly his eyes and partly his instinct told him that not six paces behind him there must be a door, and if Heaven pleased it should be unlocked, behind it they must look for shelter. It even crossed his mind in that second of crowding, galloping thought, that perchance the room might be occupied. That was a risk he must take — the lesser risk of the two, the choice of one of which was forced upon him. He had determined all this ere the soldier’s foot was upon the third step of the staircase, and before the colonel had commenced the ascent. Kenneth stood palsied with fear, gazing like one fascinated at the approaching peril.

  Then upon his ear fell the fierce whisper: “Come with me, and tread lightly as you love your life.”

  In three long strides, and by steps that were softer than a cat’s, Crispin crossed to the door which he had rather guessed than seen. He ran his hand along until he caught the latch. Softly he tried it; it gave, and the door opened. Kenneth was by then beside him. He paused to look back.

  On the opposite wall the light of the trooper’s lanthorn fell brightly. Another moment and the fellow would have reached and turned the corner of the stairs, and his light must reveal them to him. But ere that instant was passed Crispin had drawn his companion through, and closed the door as softly as he had opened it. The chamber was untenanted and almost bare of furniture, at which discovery Crispin breathed more freely.

  They stood there, and heard the ascending footsteps, and the clank-clank of a sword against the stair-rail. A bar of yellow light came under the door that sheltered them. Stronger it grew and farther it crept along the floor; then stopped and receded again, as he who bore the lanthorn turned and began to climb to the second floor. An instant later and the light had vanished, eclipsed by those who followed in the fellow’s wake.

  “The window, Sir Crispin,” cried Kenneth, in an excited whisper— “the window!”

  “No,” answered Crispin calmly. “The drop is a long one, and we should but light in the streets, and be little better than we are here. Wait.”

  He listened. The footsteps had turned the corner leading to the floor above. He opened the door, partly at first, then wide. For an instant he stood listening again. The steps were well overhead by now; soon they would mount the last flight, and then discovery must be swift to follow.

  “Now,” was all Crispin said, and, drawing his sword he led the way swiftly, yet cautiously, to the stairs once more. In passing he glanced over the rails. The guardroom door stood ajar, and he caught the murmurs of subdued conversation. But he did not pause. Had the door stood wide he would not have paused then. There was not a second to be lost; to w
ait was to increase the already overwhelming danger. Cautiously, and leaning well upon the stout baluster, he began the descent. Kenneth followed him mechanically, with white face and a feeling of suffocation in his throat.

  They gained the corner, and turning, they began what was truly the perilous part of their journey. Not more than a dozen steps were there; but at the bottom stood the guardroom door, and through the chink of its opening a shaft of light fell upon the nethermost step. Once a stair creaked, and to their quickened senses it sounded like a pistol-shot. As loud to Crispin sounded the indrawn breath of apprehension from Kenneth that followed it. He had almost paused to curse the lad when, thinking him of how time pressed, he went on.

  Within three steps of the bottom were they, and they could almost distinguish what was being said in the room, when Crispin stopped, and turning his head to attract Kenneth’s attention, he pointed straight across the hall to a dimly visible door. It was that of the chamber wherein he had been brought before Cromwell. Its position had occurred to him some moments before, and he had determined then upon going that way.

  The lad followed the indication of his finger, and signified by a nod that he understood. Another step Galliard descended; then from the guardroom came a loud yawn, to send the boy cowering against the wall. It was followed by the sound of someone rising; a chair grated upon the floor, and there was a movement of feet within the chamber. Had Kenneth been alone, of a certainty terror would have frozen him to the wall.

  But the calm, unmovable Crispin proceeded as if naught had chanced; he argued that even if he who had risen were coming towards the door, there was nothing to be gained by standing still. Their only chance lay now in passing before it might be opened.

  They that walk through perils in a brave man’s company cannot but gain confidence from the calm of his demeanour. So was it now with Kenneth. The steady onward march of that tall, lank figure before him drew him irresistibly after it despite his tremors. And well it was for him that this was so. They gained the bottom of the staircase at length; they stood beside the door of the guardroom, they passed it in safety. Then slowly — painfully slowly — to avoid their steps from ringing upon the stone floor, they crept across towards the door that meant safety to Sir Crispin. Slowly, step by step, they moved, and with every stride Crispin looked behind him, prepared to rush the moment he had sign they were discovered. But it was not needed. In silence and in safety they were permitted to reach the door. To Crispin’s joy it was unfastened. Quietly he opened it, then with calm gallantry he motioned to his companion to go first, holding it for him as he passed in, and keeping watch with eye and ear the while.